


Amrita Memories

by Bool_Ji



Category: NIOH (Video Game), 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Combat, Crossover, Dreams and Nightmares, Edo Period, Hurt/Comfort, New Rivals, Old Friends, Supernatural Elements, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: A collection of crossover vignettes between the Yakuza (Ryu ga Gotoku) series and the game Nioh, re-imagining your favorite professional criminals as 17th Century samurai, ninjas, and mages, with a dash of demonic invasion and protective spirits.IN THIS EPISODE: Majima has long since turned over a new leaf, but old legends reemerging may convince him to walk dark paths once more.





	1. The Lifeline of Tsukuyomi

“You a magic man?”

Akiyama looks up from the pot of boiling broth. The new arrival almost fills the cave mouth entirely. Only the barest light, already filtered by the gloom of the storm raging outside, squeezes past his bulk. The ring of fur around his neck has long since drowned; rain drips from every channel of his armor plates.

“I prefer the term _yamabushi_ ,” Akiyama says, shifting to face the stranger, “But yes, I’ve been known to write the odd spell or two. That what you here for?” He suddenly chuckles, flashing a grin. “Sorry, sorry. I forget myself, it’s become so routine. Please, come in.”

The arrival stoops to fit inside the cave, tracking mud and wet behind him. Something nudges Akiyama’s hand. He looks down. It’s the white twin of his tonfa set. Hana, sitting nearby, pushes it closer. Shun gives her a comforting smile. He’s dealt with _oni_ before.

The newcomer drops to the ground and Akiyama flinches, half-expecting the whole mountain to quake under his weight. By the campfire’s light, he can tell he’s a samurai. _Was_ , at least. His garb is battered and broken in places, stained with the toils of a journey. What could be dirt is more likely blood. The enormous hammer on his back looks like it’s heavier than he is. Shun is glad it either hasn’t been used recently, or has been washed clean from the deluge. He doesn’t like the sight of brains.

“I have soup coming up in a second,” Akiyama says, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

The stranger hesitates, grappling with his own thoughts. He climbed a mountain for this. Might as well trust the so-called _yamabushi_. “My name is Saejima Taiga,” he finally says, “I need your help.”

Akiyama glances at Hana. _See?_ his look says, _You were scared for nothing_.

She shoots him a frown right back. _The moment_ yokai _know we’re up here, we’re ruined_ , it replies.

“What kind of help? I have charms for money, luck, clarity of mind. I’ll tell you now, they’re not guaranteed to work. You can’t slap them on your head for an instant fix. You have to want them to work.”

Saejima shakes his head, spilling droplets across the cave. “Nothing like that. You can get crap like that from anybody.”

Akiyama’s eyebrow twitches. “I like to think they’re not cra–”

The samurai lifts his breastplate. Sitting inside, sheltered from the storm, is a spirit. The smallest one Akiyama’s ever seen, it could fit in his palm. Just a fuzzy ball of _nigitama_ – positive energy.

“How do I care for him?” Saejima asks.

Shun swallows his heart. “Put it back,” he says, nodding when Taiga tucks his armor back into place, “How long have you had it?”

“A day. Bad things were picking on him. That wasn’t right, so I stopped them.”

The _yamabushi_ glances at the hammer.

“Couldn’t leave him behind,” Saejima continues, “He’s so little, you know? So I picked him up. Put him somewhere safe. Heard rumors you could help, so I came here. Can you?”

Akiyama touches his chest. “Did you know to put it there?”

“No. Seemed like a good idea.”

Shun thinks for a moment. Extracting three cups, he ladles soup into each. “Tell you what. Let’s sleep on this. I’ll have a better idea what to do in the morning.” He gives a cup to Hana and offers one to Saejima.

The samurai takes it, looks at the contents. Pieces of rabbit, plant roots, a few vegetables. He can’t be picky. Few people are willing to lend even wilted greens to a wandering disgrace.

“Cheers,” Akiyama exclaims. Everyone drinks. He spoons seconds and thirds for Taiga before he subjects himself to the shame of asking for more.

\- - -

Hours later, when the storm has calmed and Saejima is twitching on a bed of straw, Akiyama goes to work. He feels a tad wretched for drugging his pilgrims, but how else can he judge them at their most sincere?

Tasogare bumps his fingers. Shun interprets it as comfort instead of the common sleepy wobble the _baku_ calls a gait. He strokes down the pillars of stardust along its spine and feels the simultaneous sensation in the back of his mind. Touching his spirit is like putting his hand to a mirror and sinking into it like the surface of a pond. Touching himself and, at the same time, not.

Tasogare knows the drill. Despite the glow from its fur that paints the cave walls in shades of galactic violet, Saejima doesn’t stir as it approaches. It sniffs his skin, ox tail sashaying, and places the end of its trunk over his ear, mindful of its tusks.

Akiyama watches a bulge travel up its length. When Tasogare has collected enough, it slips its trunk into its mouth and swallows deeply. When it reaches for more, Shun kneels, extracting three talismans from inside his _joi_.

The first is for divination, for the wisdom and empathy. The second is for healing, for apologizing for what he has to do. The third is for protection, for a suit of armor around his mind. Just in case. They are far more potent than anything he gives his visitors, and he feels their effects the instant he casts them on himself. He is within and above his consciousness, watching it expand and drop roots, the cave and the mountain beyond coming into hyper-focus. 

“Ready when you are,” he murmurs.

Tasogare turns to its host. Not a hint of a sway in its step this time. This is their duty, solemn and sacred. Akiyama gives the spirit’s paws a gentle squeeze. _I’ll be fine_.

The eye on the _baku_ ’s forehead opens and the cave is obliterated with consuming light.

\- - -

It’s a battlefield. Akiyama has seen them before. A musket round sails past his face slow enough for him to spot the gases it trails from exploding gunpowder. He lets it pass, and wanders on.

Dreams are always slippery. A combination of his self-protective _onmyo_ magic and the simple fact that the dream isn’t his makes them liquid and loose. This one is made worse from the smoke in the air, belched from cannons and untamed fires. Deep gouges made from stomping hoof and sprinting boot rake the earth into ash-topped waves. Men hide behind barricades, peeking out to raise their rifles. The bodies – piles of corpses everywhere, thrown together to make way for soldiers soon to join the ranks of the dead.

Movement ahead. It’s Saejima.

He is fury incarnate. Swarmed by infantry, he pays no heed to the swords and spears clanging off his armor. Men fly with each swing of his hammer – ribs crushed, limbs smashed, blood spilled. A soldier rushes in with his blade. Taiga knocks it up and brings the hammer down on his head. Red mud conceals the worst of the pulped skull.

Eighteen. Eighteen men destroyed for the sake of Lord Sakon, who doesn’t know he exists.

Saejima is on number nineteen when it happens, almost too fast for Akiyama to see. It comes from behind the _yamabushi_ , the sound of flesh splitting open giving it away. He turns to face it. There’s no mistaking what it is. A snake the color of gore, tearing through the smog, whipping from one haggard soldier to another, bashing through their chests with jaws wide open, no hesitation, no remorse.

A spirit.

Akiyama raises his arms, braces himself, staring as the serpent barrels down on him with rows of fangs and a ravenous maw–

It blasts past him.

Shame flares hot in Shun’s chest. A novice mistake. This isn’t his dream. He isn’t here.

But Saejima–

The snake makes a lightning-fast revolution around Taiga, plowing through the men surrounding him, and it is out of sight, slashing over the battlefield for more prey. Ankle deep in the dead, Saejima tries to take hold of his thundering heart. He looks toward Sakon’s camp, toward some sign of order.

The ground jolts beneath their feet as huge crystalline spikes erupt from the earth. Akiyama stumbles to a knee and dirt grits against his palm. His breath catches in his throat –  if he can feel the dream, the protection talisman has worn off.

The sky turns crimson. From a crevasse in the earth the demon rises, bones from countless dead creeping together to form its six arms, its whip-like tail. Amrita lies caged in its chest and embedded in its skull. Two-thousand feet tall, born from hatred and magic blacker than midnight, the _gasha-dokuro_ roars its rage.

Saejima flees.

Akiyama, shocked to his core, almost doesn’t notice. He turns and Saejima is gone. The pile of bodies shifts. It’s victim nineteen. Miasma pours from the ground, seeping into the gaping wound the snake spirit left in his chest. He looks at his fallen comrades even as _aratama_ consumes him, swallowing his humanity in a thick case of orange hide, bristling horns, and jagged fangs. The newborn _yokai_ bellows and lifts its blade.

Akiyama runs.

All around him, monsters are arriving. Soldiers rise to their feet, flesh sloughing off in thick, gray sheets until they are no more than skeletal wraiths. A one-eyed giant wrenches itself through a swirl of darkness. From the corner of his eye, Shun spots a heap of deceased mold themselves into an _oni_ larger than a house. He tries to ignore the fire in his lungs. This isn’t really happening. He isn’t here.

Saejima–

He almost passes him. Taiga hasn’t found shelter – the charred wood of a fallen tree is no barrier against devils. Still, he hides behind it as well as he can, curled into a ball. Akiyama kneels, reaching for him while around them the twilight of humankind looms.

Cannons blast from the Tokugawa camp. Saejima clasps his ears as four shots fly overhead. Three miss their target. The _gasha-dokuro_ bats the fourth one out of the air. The round explodes uselessly against its hand. Shrieking, the demon counterattacks, spitting a volley of ghostly energy. Saejima bolts, scrambling as the air itself seems to harden around his feet.

Akiyama’s talismans splinter like twigs. He has no idea what will happen – if the nightmare is so potent it will chew him up, if the underworld will rot him from the inside out. He bares his teeth, hands balling into fists. _So be it_ , he thinks, _If I die, I die helping my fellow man_.

Golden eyes open as the the _gasha-dokuro_ ’s attack rains around him – Tasogare’s eyes–

He’s in a forest. A dirt road. A decaying sign, nearly impossible to read in the mist that clings to his clothes and drips from the trees, points the way to the nearest towns.The only sound is wind through the leaves. It smells pungent with new, fresh growth.

Ten years have passed.

Shun breathes deep, reaching out with his mind for Tasogare’s presence. _Cut it a bit closer next time, won’t you?_ he thinks. The _baku_ stays hidden, but he feels it turn. He follows its gaze.

Saejima, walking through the undergrowth. Armor beaten and bashed, black hair slipping out from beneath his _kabuto_ , the old soldier moves without destination, hammer leaving a furrow in the dirt as he drags it behind him. Anything to stay away from the _aratama_ hounding him. Wriggling legs and a core of yellow energy propel them through the air. There are eighteen in total. One scurries ahead of Taiga, brushes against his cheek. Flinching with disgust, he slaps it away, and it joins the rest of the pack.

Lord Mitsunari is dead. Lord Sakon has vanished. Saejima is a _ronin_.

Akiyama follows him.

Emboldened, the _aratama_ stage another offense. Weaving under and around each other, they nip at Taiga’s ankles, his fingers – digging into gaps in iron plate and sinking needle teeth into his skin. “Enough,” he grunts, “Leave me be.”

_We will never have enough_ , one of them whispers.

_We had wives_ , another murmurs, _We had children._

_We became monsters_ , they say, _So monsters we become_.

Jaws find a tendon. Saejima chokes on a cry, crashing to the ground.

He imagines he will lie here forever. Perish and sink into the earth. He knows he is bound for the depths of the Sanzu River, for the cold waters to trap him for eternity. He deserves his fate, and so he stills, face in the mud, and waits.

Something growls.

Saejima knows he’s going to die, but he isn’t interested in being eaten alive. He lifts his head and sees a small shrine carved into a tree.

Within shines the prettiest light he’s ever seen.

A group of foxes circle the tree. The once holy creatures are shot through with amrita. The stones jut from their bodies like tumors. Their muzzles are coated in dry blood. Two of them are small, but the third is huge, easily the size of a bear. They snap their fangs and pant and whine, purple tongues swollen and hungry.

He reaches for his hammer. An _aratama_ breaks a tooth through his fingernail.

Cringing, Saejima staggers to his feet. He’s already cursed. Nothing can worsen his situation. “ _Hey_!”

The foxes turn toward him, hackles raised.

The _ronin_ holds his hammer. “Pick on someone your own size!”

It’s over shockingly fast. Something activates in Saejima, a conduit wide open between his weapon and his soul, so blinding in its brutality that the foxes are defenseless. One catches a hammer to the back, spine broken backwards. Another is smashed upside the jaw, sending it crashing into a log. The third, the largest, spits an orb of foxfire.

Saejima reaches _through it_ , oblivious to the heat splashing against his chest, grabs the fox’s throat, and slams the steel-hard horns of his _kabuto_ onto its head, caving in its skull.

The corpses dissolve into shards of amrita and noxious gas.

Taiga slings the hammer onto his back. The little light in the shrine is unharmed. It’s truly beautiful, a pearlescent egg of a substance he can’t identify. Otherworldly and terrified.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he mutters, “That’s how it is.”

Realization hits him like a rock slide. He hasn’t felt this _good_ in a decade. Even the blood dripping from his ruined nail isn’t painful. He looks over his shoulder. The eighteen _aratama_ are _staying away_. Milling around each other in restless channels, and _keeping their distance_.

The light. They hate the light.

Saejima makes a decision before it even occurs to him to do so.

“Um,” he starts, unsure how exactly to speak to, quite frankly, the supernatural, “Listen. It ain’t safe here. You got lucky this time, but I have to keep moving. You want to come with me? If not, uh, smite me. Or something.”

He scoops the light into his palms. No bolts of lightning, no chasms opening beneath his feet. It weighs nothing and everything simultaneously. He slips it under his breastplate beside his heart.

_If there’s a shrine out here_ , he thinks, _there must be a village nearby_. Somewhere to beg for a meal and pray no one recognizes an old enemy. He finds the dirt road, _aratama_ trailing behind him.

“You have a name?”

No response.

“That’s fine. I don’t talk much either.”

Akiyama watches the reincarnated soldier until he fades into the murk of the dream. The forest comes undone. Trees and grass and ground meld into a hazy slime. Tasogare wraps its trunk around his hand, and as its third eye shuts, Shun knows what he has to do.

\- - -

By morning, the rain has stopped. Saejima awakens to sunlight and clean air. He sits up and yawns, stretches his legs. Hana sits nearby, boiling water for tea.

“Mornin’,” he says. A hint of a smile twitches his lip. “Maybe there’s something to being a weird recluse. I haven’t slept that well in years.”

He turns deeper into the cave. Akiyama leans against a wall. The _yamabushi_ ’s face is pale, his eyes hang with shadows, and his clothes are covered in dust. His fingers are red and sore.

Taiga scowls. “What’s wrong with him? Get into some bad mushrooms?”

Hana purses her lips. “No, not this time. Must’ve been something he ate.”

The _ronin_ stares at her, a hand touching his chest. Reacting to his heartbeat, the spirit pulses against his plate. “So now what? I came up here for noth–”

Akiyama startles awake with a cry. Hana nearly topples over. Saejima grabs for his hammer. _They left it within my reach last night_ , it occurs to him.

Shun rubs his eyes, groaning. “Sorry, sorry. I…didn’t get much rest last night. Wanted to catch you before you left though.” He shifts to his knees, reaches into his _joi_.

The _magatama_ is sunset orange. Though in the proper teardrop shape, its edges are rough and sharp. Freshly chiseled. There is a leather string through its hole.

“You don’t need my help,” Akiyama says, offering the charm with both hands, “You’re doing just fine. This is my gift to you. It’s a ward against evil, an enduring shield, and fuel for growth.” He bows his head. “And it _will_ work, whether you believe me or not. Always. You have my word.”

Saejima hesitates. A purple _thing_ sits behind Akiyama. Although it’s almost too sleepy to stand, tilting on its striped paws, the gleam in its eyes, open just a crack, is knowing. Taiga knows it’s a _baku_. And it’s been in his head.

He could kill them. They know who he is. If they squeal to Tokugawa’s forces, he’s as good as dead. He could kill them and throw the bodies to the crows and keep the cave as his lair.

Tiny mouths gnaw at his flesh.

He takes the _magatama_ and slips it around his neck. It might be his imagination, but did the spirit kick against his chest? “Thanks.”

Shun looks up and smiles. “Don’t mention it. If you need anything else, you can always ask.”

“Yeah. How do I get out of here?”

The _yamabushi_ explains. Turn right at that rock, make due west at that bush, mind the sheer cliffs and loose gravel. When he’s confident Saejima can make it off the mountain, he bows until the _ronin_ leaves.

Then collapses face first to the ground.

A tug on his shoulder helps him sit up. “Nightmare?” Hana asks.

Akiyama sighs, pinching his brow. “The worst I’ve ever seen.” He stares at the ceiling. “I saw Sekigahara, Hana. The rumors are true. For a brief time, the _yokai_ realm conquered ours. What does this mean about our shogunate? They’ve covered it up for years.”

“Is that a bad thing? Most people think _yokai_ are just superstition.”

_Until they turn up at their front door_ , he thinks. After a moment, he says, “Hana, would you hate me if I became a member of polite society again? Just for a while?”

Hana smiles, petting Tasogare’s trunk. The spirit leans into her touch. Akiyama feels it too, both as a comforting hand on his cheek, and a kind push to follow his dreams. “Only if you forget to bring me back a souvenir.”


	2. Winter Dawn

Destruction is easy. Rebuilding is not.

“Boss, we’re out of tiles.”

Majima Goro sighs, cracking open his eye. From the bottom floor, nothing stops him from looking up into the blue. The townhouse is unfinished, and will continue to be as long as work isn’t flowing. Nishida, the dam in the stream, leans over the hole where a ceiling will be and calls down to him again. “Boss?”

Disgusting. As foreman of the project, Majima had the most important role. Crews of craftsmen didn’t govern themselves. Let he who is without stress rebuke him for napping. The tatami mats had to be tested for optimal comfort, in any case.

Goro sits up, scowling as vertebrae pop. “Then go get some from the masons,” he groans, “ _Initiative_. A little goes a long way.”

Nishida disappears and Majima lies back down. The village won’t be complete for weeks yet. There is rice to plant and streets to lay, wells to dig and shrines to bless. When all is said and done, it will be a nice place to live. Future residents will be proud to call it home. Maji-machi, he’ll name it.

“ _Boss_.”

It’s Minami. The apprentice is young and has yet to see every hammer out of left field the world will throw at him, but the awe in his voice surpasses simple surprise. Saws stop grinding. Tools freeze in midair. Majima rises again to find progress at a dead halt. Time has suffocated under a stunned silence.

A legend has walked into town.

William Adams is the culmination of all dusty roads less traveled, from the chips in his axe’s blade to the tattered sash around his waist. Each soft footstep carries years of adventure. The Irish samurai pays no heed to the shroud of quiet hanging over the unmade village. It’s only a path to his next destination.

Goro stands up. “Excuse me, good sir,” he says, sauntering into the road, “There is a toll to travel any farther. You’ll have to pay up.”

William looks him over and decides the war has treated him well. Losing an eye is an adequate trade for a slim yet muscular build and leadership of competent men. Not an ounce of fear on his face, though Adams stands taller and wears plate capable of stopping cannon rounds and the foreman is clad in only a mustard seed yellow _yukata_. He drops a pouch of silver pieces into his hand. “Let me pass.”

Majima weighs the bag and his options. “Though this is very generous of you, sir,” he says, “My crew have families to feed. Surely a warrior of your caliber has more to offer.”

Blue eyes make a quick circuit of the town. He’s surrounded, he realizes. Dozens of craftsmen are watching the encounter. Many of them carry what could easily become makeshift weapons. The average age marks them all as veterans; their hands and faces rough with combat, not toil.

More silver appears. A bigger bag this time. “I’m leaving,” William growls, “Whatever game you’re playing ends here.”

He feels for the town, he truly does. They line every road from Tohoku to Tokai. Residents nurture hope out of bloodstained soil and a bedrock of sorrow. Yet he can’t stay. War waits for no man. He must make it to Osaka.

Saoirse whispers in his ear. “ _Death comes for you_.”

No sooner has she finished does something hard and metal whiz through the air his head had been.

William draws his axe, hunches low to brace himself, ready for a fight – and freezes with ice in his veins.

The spirit rising from Majima’s back bears a madwoman’s grin and a monster’s fangs, though the energy she radiates is positive and pure. It’s a mask, Adams realizes. Gripped in her hair are other masks, no two alike, from a _tengu_ ’s fierce frown to an old monk’s smile. Her fingernails are knives. The ends of the sash around her kimono are snake heads, and they live, flashing their pale throats and flicking their tongues. The spirit burns with a flame intense enough to rival the sun.

“Had to see if it was really you, Sir Anjin of Miura,” Majima chirps. The _kusarigama_ weight twirls high over his head, its tooth-like sickle clutched in his other hand. “Now _there’s_ a name gone unspoken. It’s been ten years, hasn’t it? Show me you’re more than a myth!”

William purses his lips and plants his feet. Goro grins and is upon him like a swarm of locusts.

Adams gives him credit. His axe has claimed hundreds of limbs, can cleave Majima in half with no effort, yet the foreman dances around its swings with reckless abandon. As he resigns himself to the weary, inevitable truth that Goro insists on death before surrender, William throws himself harder into the fray. Majima reaches into his _yukata_ , flings a fan-shaped array of throwing stars. Adams darts out of their way, draws a short breath as the _shuriken_ twinkle with sizzling fuses–

Their explosive payloads burst, spraying shards of shrapnel. William turns with the shock wave. Though his eyes are closed against the blasts, he _knows_ if he rides the force, ignores the sting of the sickle blade nipping through his armor–

Majima squawks as he’s barreled over. The axe lifts high, swings down,–

–and crashes into the earth so close to his head he feels pebbles kiss his cheek. Adams cranes over him, blue eyes frigid.

“Oi,” Goro says when he can find his voice, “You _missed_.” One hand is pinned behind his back. Slowly, he inches toward his belt, and the little box hiding within.

“You’re a fool and a menace.” William extracts the axe and can’t help but feel a rush of victory as clumps of dirt fall from the blade onto the foreman’s face. He has seen legions of men perish, personally sent many to be judged in the afterlife. Not this man. Not today. Let him be a lesson to their audience, the crews who only want to move on. There is no future in violence.

Majima looks up into the blue and softly sighs. Something underneath him is glowing.

William spots it too late. The bomb threatens to tackle him clear off his feet. His soles leave furrows in the ground as he’s rocked backwards.

Majima stands unscathed, and his spirit looms behind him. She runs her arms along his own, becoming amorphous and sluicing onto his _kusarigama_. Weapon aflame with ethereal power, he howls with renewed vigor and leaps at William.

_Underestimated_ , Adams thinks, and reaches his mind for Saoirse. She is never far away, and as she manifests – smiling calmly as Goro charges them both – she coats his axe in deep, cold water.

Blade and weight smash against one another time and time again. Crimson and purple sparks ignite with every impact. William is shocked to find he feels sick. No doubt Majima needs to die. He mourns the loss of the bond between man and spirit that pounds against his axe.

Majima is tiring. The flames evaporate to steam under the relentless assault. He gathers himself for one last attack, eye bright with rage, giving himself over to his spirit. William lifts his axe, oceanic droplets sailing into the light.

Split seconds away from final impact–

“ _That’s enough!_ ”

Eggs. That’s what the things flying between them look like. Bluish gray eggs that hatch into clouds of blood red smoke as they break on the ground.

Coughing and wheezing, both men recoil away. Majima hasn’t felt more drained in his entire life. He searches his mind for his spirit and finds her as exhausted as he. Good, in a way. Pain equals life. His trachea closing as he inhaled the red smoke is the best news he’s received all day.

He licks his lips. Numb as well, and yet. Oddly familiar. He’s tasted it before. Hemlock and nightshade blended to incapacitate, not kill, in a powdered form…

The smoke clears. Behind it is a man dressed in black, his face obscured. There is no mistaking the spirit that follows him: a white, two-tailed cat.

The bottom of the world falls out from under Majima. “Masanari?”

Hanzo Hattori’s primary concern is William. The samurai wins wars and, more importantly, is his closest friend. Yet the sound of a name gone unspoken for decades drags his attention away from Adams. Pulling his face plate down, for surely he is hallucinating and needs more air – no way. Impossible. “ _Goro_?”

William, aching and finished, groans, “You _know_ each other?”

Nekomata chuckles, looking between Irishman and one-eyed warrior. “Anjin, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I’ve told you about cycles. When war springs from peace, it drags all manner of things from underground.”

\- - -

The building will eventually become an inn, but for now acts as the work crews’ barracks. Majima secured the largest room for himself, and that is where the three men retire after wounds are dressed and drinks procured.

Majima’s spirit unnerves William. She kneels beside her host, hands folded in her lap. Her mask depicts a noblewoman, with blackened teeth and rosy cheeks. She is calm, yet Adams notes her throat twists behind her neck. Her head is turned completely around, the horns of her demon mask peeking through her hair. A two-faced spirit, regardless of her painted smile.

“Hey.” Majima _tap-tap-taps_ his eye patch. “You’re _supposed_ to look at this.”

William grunts and hides his embarrassment in his cup.

“I must admit, I don’t know how to feel,” Hanzo says, “It’s been over thirty years since I saw you last. I thought you were dead.”

Majima huffs a laugh. Withdrawing a pipe from his yukata grants William a glimpse of the tools strapped to his body. Scrolls, kunai, boxes and balls of explosives. “No, still alive and kicking,” he says, “For better or worse.”

“I’m rather lost here,” William interjects, “How do you know each other?” He looks at Goro. “How do you know _me_?”

The foreman grins, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I’m in the business of keeping my ear to the ground. Been my best interest to do so. Ever since Nobunaga took my eye.”

Adams flinches, shooting Hanzo a worried glance. Majima cackles and slaps his knee. “You should see the look on your face! You’d think the Demon King lived again!”

“He did,” the samurai growls, “He returned from the dead through black magic.”

“You’re dumb as a sack of hammers. I _know_ that. Ear. To. The Ground. You sent him packin’. Kinda hate you for it too, that you got to kill him instead of me.”

“A long time ago,” Hanzo interrupts, “the Iga Province was its own republic. We were independent of any overlords, and the Iga ninjutsu school was born of the guerilla warfare employed to keep us that way. My father trained many in the style.”

William glares at Majima. “Let me guess.”

Goro deliberately shuts his eye in what can only be a wink. “Guilty as charged. Fourth generation Iga ninja, in the flesh.”

“And a right pain in the arse.”

“Ya flatter me, Anjin-chan!”

“So you were there,” Hanzo asks, “when Nobunaga attacked?”

Majima’s grin sours. Wind dashed from his sails, he takes a deep puff of his pipe while collecting his thoughts. “Yeah, I was. Tried to defend our home. Lost my family, my belongings, and my eye in return.”

Hanzo frowns, leaning forward. “We were little more than children.”

“No one was spared the fire. Men, women, infants – all were subject to Nobunaga’s wrath. I barely escaped with my life. What happened next was…complicated, to say the least.” He peers at his spirit. She returns his gaze. He blows a gray plume and continues, “That’s one thing the peace is good for. I’ve put all that behind me. Haven’t killed anyone in ten years, though if a blue-eyed dunderhead wanders into town–”

“I’m really not someone you want as an enemy,” William sneers.

The spirit puts a hand to her lips and laughs. It’s the sound of diamonds in a bonfire. Shivers travel down the samurai’s spine.

“Have a sense of humor, Anjin-chan,” Majima quips, “That was the best fight I’ve had in a long time. Ya ever wanna go again, just say the word.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

After a moment, the ninja blinks. “And?”

Adams gets to his feet. “I’m done here. The pleasure’s all yours.”

Goro waves him off. “I mean it about a rematch. Don’t make me ambush you, because you _will not_ see it comin’.”

The sliding door slams shut. Majima quirks an eyebrow. “Ya sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

“He’s seen no end of conflict,” Hanzo says, “It weighs heavy on his mind, and you aren’t helping.”

“I’m testing if he’s still sharp. No point in carryin’ around an axe if he can’t use it.”

“We’ll see about that in Osaka. Toyotomi Hideyori has gathered an army in rebellion against Lord Tokugawa. I want you to come with us.”

The pipe freezes halfway to Goro’s incredulous lips. “Eh?”

“Osaka Castle has been fortified with a grand stronghold called Sanada Maru. It is said to be impregnable, with scores of archers and cannons defending the outer walls. A man of your skills will be an invaluable aid.”

Majima falls silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is low and solemn. “I can’t. I’m done working for anyone.” He flicks the ashes out of his pipe. “Besides, I have this town to rebuild. People are waiting on me, Masanari. I can’t bring back Iga, but I can give them a new future.”

Hanzo bows his head. “I respect your decision. Your endeavor is noble, and I have no right to conscript you away from it.” Getting up, he pauses at the door. “I never had the chance to say I admired you, Goro. Father’s training was merciless. Your companionship kept me sane.”

“Yeah, well. Look who’s cozy with the shogun and who’s digging latrines.”

Hanzo cracks a sad smile. “May the gods keep you well, old friend.”

_Eight million gods and I haven’t seen a single one_ , Majima thinks. He nods once. “Gods keep ya well.”

Hattori departs. The remaining ninja refills his pipe, holds it out for his spirit to light. Their eyes meet as she cups the bowl. Returning her hands to her lap, she arches her spine backwards, mask tilted upward. Her flames blaze larger and hotter, licking the ceiling until someone on the roof beyond yelps in pain.

Minami swings in through the window. Clad in the black apparel of a shinobi, he immediately prostrates himself, forehead on the floor. “Boss! How’d you know I was there?”

Majima sighs, eye narrowed. “You can be a shadow at midnight, but if ya have _footsteps_ , you’re not foolin’ anyone.”

The apprentice swallows hard. Only dire consequences can come from this. “And – Hattori?”

“Knew you were there before I did. He’s not the leader of what’s left of Iga for nothing.”

Minami presses his head down harder. “I confess, boss! I heard everything! That you survived the Demon King’s invasion, that you want to fight Sir Anjin again, that you’re not going to Osa–”

“You make me sick.”

The words are expected, though they sting no less. “Forgive me, boss.”

“I look at you and see myself.”

Minami’s face snaps up. “ _What?_ ”

His apprentice is painfully predictable. Majima rolls his eye. “None of my good qualities, of course. I see a stupid kid who’d sooner kill himself with what he’s learned than use it in any real capacity.” He breathes deep of his pipe, letting Minami squirm. “Life has yet to come at you hard and fast. Now’s your chance to practice your skills or die tryin’.”

Despite the spirit’s presence, Minami is frozen. “You don’t mean–”

Majima turns his gaze to the sky, where the beginnings of sunset pink the horizon. “I’m going to Osaka.”

“But…you said–”

“ _Anjin-chan_ is smarter than you. I said I don’t work _for_ anyone. I’m goin’ on _my own_ terms, and one of them is you. Wanna get your hands dirty?”

Minami bangs his head on the floor. “Yes, sir! I won’t disappoint you, sir!”

Goro smirks. Years and years ago, he was a fearsome assassin, known in dark circles as the Flame in the Night. As he imagines holding Toyotomi’s severed head high above Osaka Castle, he feels the spark rekindled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Dawn refers to a kusarigama skill that inflicts more stamina damage with every hit, something that ninja!Majima would have up his sleeve. We all know how relentless the cyclopean chap can be.

**Author's Note:**

> Tsukuyomi is the moon god in Japanese mythology. In Nioh, equipment blessed by his grace receive substantial benefits to magic. I wouldn't be surprised if Niohverse!Akiyama had some.


End file.
